“I am a boy who lives in the woods.
I fall in love with trees, mostly.
When I touch them
they turn to wood.
When I touch you
you turn into a pond.
I walk into a pond
like I love it.”

zachary schomburg, “the pond”  (via kdecember)

1 day ago with 53 notes

Your mouth is godly.


ha ha

1 day ago with 0 notes

Back to braidsics.

Back to braidsics.

Listen to Ache by FKA Twigs.


Listen to everything by FKA Twigs.

3 days ago with 0 notes

How scents remind you of someone? Rain/Ocean/Leaves/Candles


Scents don’t remind me of people, they remind me of places, so check mate.

3 days ago with 0 notes

Not sure if that was sarcasm or not, but either way I'm terrible at it.


Not sarcasm, totally serious.

This is officially an open call for all of you to send Victoria things to put in poems.

3 days ago with 0 notes

Your poetry is beauty in evenly spaced pixels. Please, don't stop.


Well I love you so I’m sorry about that, first of all.

Do you wanna help me write poemz?

3 days ago with 1 note

So I’m never really on Tumblr anymore but I just got a bunch of notifications on my phone because I guess people really like a poem I wrote a while ago. I, sadly, have not been writing nearly as much as I used to, but here’s a shameless plug:

Follow my poetry blog here and you can read multiple romantic failures in reverse, plus some other stuff.

3 days ago with 1 note


The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit
shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through
the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word.

One boy assures me I am not like other girls.
Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment.

I listen to them speak of women like menus;

lace skirt
trimmed steak.

I cross my legs and nearly fold my voice
into a teal blue Tiffany’s box.

This is the part where I prove that I am chill.
I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill?

As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young
women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits

How much?

Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot
pool balls, as I have done so many times.

The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats
for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car.

I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture
as a ponytail holder around my wrist.

In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator
by association.

When I get the courage to say something,
I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi.

I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person,
which is why I’m telling him this in the first place.

I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up
his sister, his mother, his girlfriend-
I have to make this accessible to him.

It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform
the sexist, politely.

It is the dilemma of the woman
who wishes to be heard-

Let us give you this reality check
with a spoonful of sugar.

Let us make this easier for you to hear
than it is for us to live.”

SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

I can not handle this. 

2 weeks ago with 1,794 notes